


ask questions last

by insunshine



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 07:44:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7792879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re a very sweet boy, Tyler,” she repeats, stroking her fingers over his exposed skin. He can’t remember giving her his name, but she’s a fan. Weirder things have happened. “I’m going to give you a gift.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	ask questions last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gigantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigantic/gifts).



> This is a surprise bit of nonsense to celebrate the birth of my very best friend. Best friend, I hope you enjoy this. Gosh, I'm so glad that you were born.

Just because he's from Toronto does not mean homelessness is a problem Toff is unfamiliar with. It's overwhelming, and sad, and Toff still gets flustered when regular fans seem to recognize him and keep up staring contests when he’s picking up his dry-cleaning or dinner, or just, like, walking back to the car.

The woman on the corner looks familiar, but he can’t tell if it’s because he’s stopped to chat with her before or because he hasn’t. They’ve made eye-contact already, so there’s no way he can just cross the street to avoid her. 

“Good morning,” she says, and he digs in his pockets for spare change, or some cash, but he's got nothing except maybe a punch card from Froyo Life. He’s pretty sure he has a free yogurt on next visit, so that’s actually pretty valuable.

“Hi,” Toff says, smiling as best he can and handing the card over. “I’m sorry, I don’t ever carry cash, but here. Please have this. I’m. Yeah. Here. I’m sorry. Their stuff is really good, though. If you even like frozen yogurt.”

He doesn’t shove it at her, but her change cup rattles when he stuffs it in. He blushes again.

“You’re a very sweet boy,” the old woman says, and Toff blinks at her, because he was pretty sure that she was only his mom’s age the last time he looked.

“Um,” he mumbles, ineloquent. “Thank you, ma’am. I try.”

She nods at him slowly, and now she looks so old that even moving her head seems like it's a chore, like she's dragging hundreds of pounds around her neck. 

“Are you, um.” He stutters, trying to take a step back without being rude. “Are you okay?” 

The old woman grips his forearm, and for somebody that looks older than time, her grip is weirdly strong. 

“You’re a very sweet boy, Tyler,” she repeats, stroking her fingers over his exposed skin. He can’t remember giving her his name, but she’s a fan. Weirder things have happened. “I’m going to give you a gift.”

Okay, so maybe not weirder than that. He really hopes he’s not about to get an eyeful of old lady boobs. 

“That’s really okay,” he says, holding his hands up and trying to get out from under her grasp. “Thank you, though.” The media training kicks in, and he blurts, “We really appreciate all of our, um. Fans. All shapes and sizes! Creeds. We’re a really inclusive club.”

She laughs. The sound is weirdly melodic. It’s the last thing Toff remembers before the world goes dark. 

;;

Sometimes, Toff has this dream where he’s flying. It feels great, or at least it does until he realizes the only thing keeping him aloft is how straight he can keep his arms and legs. 

That weightless feeling almost immediately gets replaced with a kind of overwhelming heaviness that weighs him down everywhere—from his head to his back to his calves—dragging him down further and further until he’s crashing against the ground and thumping so hard on it that he wakes up.

Sometimes he doesn’t tumble out of bed. Today is not one of those days. 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, sitting up and rubbing at his head where he’d smacked it on the edge of the dresser.

“Are you a gymnast now?” somebody asks from the bed. 

Toff’s whole body goes hot, inexplicably breaking into goose pimples. He knows that voice. Of course he knows that voice. Toff is a lot of things, but he’s not an idiot. Not all the time. 

“What,” Toff says, not trusting his voice with anything higher than a whisper.

Martin rolls so that his face is hanging over the edge of the mattress, a smile curved over his mouth. 

“I said, ‘just because we fell asleep watching gymnastics doesn’t mean you actually have those skills’. Save the balance beam for the professionals, huh?” 

“Keep on the ice,” Toff agrees nonsensically, trying to look anywhere else. That would be easier, maybe, if Martin weren’t in his bed, hanging out and comfortable like he owns the place. 

“You’re so weird,” Martin says, and if he’s a hallucination, he’s a surprisingly strong one, reaching out and digging his fingers into Toff’s shoulder and half-dragging up him up onto the bed. “What are you doing down on the floor, man? There’s a lot of room on this bed.”

“You’re a furnace,” Toff says, which is true, even if he hasn’t had a reason to say it out loud in a while. They haven’t shared a bed in a year. Over a year, if he’s being technical about it. “Did I, um.”

He pauses, trying to remember the last thing he did before going to bed. 

“Did I get really drunk, or something? Pears usually takes my phone away before I’m too dumb. Unless he’s dumb, too. Were we dumb? I don’t remember calling you.”

The official line to everybody that knows—that knew. There’s nothing to know anymore—is that they’re still friends. Of course they’re still friends. Toff is friends with all his exes, and Martin didn’t really have that many exes to begin with. It’s fine. 

They’re not really phone friends, or text friends, but they’re friends. So. It totally makes sense that if Martin crashed in LA for the weekend, he would… stay in Toff’s bed, for some reason. 

Right. No. 

For the record, they didn’t break up because of anything bad. Martin got traded, and yeah, San Jose is only a couple hours away, but rather than trying to make long-distance work when long-distance never worked, they just decided they were better off to…

“Are you listening to anything I’m saying?” Martin asks. His hand is still on Toff’s shoulder and he’s still smiling. 

“No,” Toff says, because honesty is the best policy, and he’d like to manage one crisis at a time if he can help it. “Sorry, I’m just. My head is all over the place, man.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Martin teases, but when Toff smiles, he smiles back. Martin has always been a soft touch, and especially for him. 

Toff sticks his tongue out, making a face, and Martin laughs, falling back against the mattress and dragging Toff with him. It has to be a dream, even though Toff’s dreams are never this lucid.

“I knew you were being weird last night,” Martin says into his hair, settling them comfortably against the mattress. 

Considering Toff doesn’t remember last night, he’s more than happy to pretend the memory gap is normal. He spreads his limbs against Martin’s like an octopus, fitting his face against the hollow of Martin’s throat and breathing him in.

Martin smells the same.

“I go home without you for one weekend, and when I get back, you’re like a pod person.” Martin’s laughing at him, soft and a little mocking and a little concerned.

It’s nice. Nicer than anything he’s heard in a while, anyway. Toff hasn’t been celibate since they broke up, but no one has really stuck around, either. He’s brought a few people home. Rarely has it been more than once.

“I’m not a pod person,” he argues, shifting so that he can get comfortable again. 

If he is hallucinating, or if maybe this is some extended fever dream, he wants to get as much of it as he can. He’s going to need this later, when he wakes up alone and the real Martin is hundreds of miles away again, probably cuddling in bed with someone else.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, it’s just that Martin is so comfortable. Even before they were together, they’d nap smushed together just like this. Toff has honestly never slept better, before or since.

“Babe,” Martin presses his lips against his temple. Toff can feel his breath, the rise and fall of his chest. It feels real, and his stomach hurts with it. “C’mon. I want froyo. It’s like, after noon already. Get up.”

Toff flinches so hard his whole body moves with it. He sits up so fast he gets dizzy, watching as Martin scoots to the other side of the bed. Froyo.

“Froyo?” he asks, and then without bothering to let Martin finish, adds, “Have you run into any, like, mysterious old people lately?” 

Martin’s tugging on a shirt, one of Toff’s shirts, from what it looks like. He can feel himself smiling before he can stop it. 

“Have I run into what?” he asks. He doesn’t look phased as he turns around. “What the fuck are you talking about?” He’s pulling on his shorts now, patting the pockets for his wallet like always. “Did you watch that M. Night Shaymalan crazy old people movie again while I was gone? Don’t listen to Pears when he dares you to do stuff like that, Ty. It’s scary.”

“Yeah, it is,” Toff agrees, shuddering at the memory of The Visit. Pears really is the fucking worst when he gets started with the dares. 

“What about mysterious old people?” Martin asks. He’s not looking at Toff anymore, bent over and tying his sneakers. 

It would be easier to bring it up this way. This way, Martin isn’t looking at him, so Toff can’t see the disappointment in his eyes when he realizes that he’s a figment, or maybe that Toff is crazy. Maybe they’re both computer generated, and if they leave this room, the whole world will disintegrate into some crazy government-sponsored video game. 

That would definitely explain the early Cup win, anyway.

“Did you ever think about breaking up?” Toff blurts, instead. 

He’s watching, so he can see the exact second when Martin’s back stiffens. He sits up slowly, waiting for a few seconds before he turns to face Toff again. 

To his credit, he doesn’t turn the question into a question, even though he could. He swallows twice, and then once more for good measure, and says, “Yes.”

Toff nods. It’s nothing he didn’t know already. In his—whatever. Maybe this is some alternate universe bullshit. In his universe, Martin thought about it a lot. Martin thought about it so much that he did it. 

“Are you still thinking about that?” Martin asks, reaching over and grabbing his hand. “Babe, it happens. People break up when they move. It sucks, and that works for some people, but it didn’t work for us.” 

“It didn’t work for us,” Toff repeats, letting the sweetness of the thought fill his chest. He squeezes Martin’s fingers, and Martin squeezes back.

;;

They don’t disintegrate when they leave his bedroom. Martin doesn’t even disappear when they run into Pears in the kitchen.

“Wait, you’re going to Froyo Life? Give me two seconds to put on pants,” Pears says, dropping his cereal spoon back into the box of Cap’n Crunch and shoving it into the pantry.

“Sorry, Pearsy,” Martin says, thumping him on the head. “Date time. No third wheels allowed.” 

“Are you fucking serious? First of all, it’s like, afternoon. What are you, getting the early bird special somewhere? Whatever.” He barely pauses before adding, “Also… you’re a couple already! You don’t need to go on dates.”

Without warning, Martin leans forward, pulling Toff in by the belt loops and kissing him square on the mouth. It’s not exactly a surprise, considering they’ve done this kind of thing more than once in the past. Toff kisses back, letting himself fall into it. Martin’s mouth is soft and warm, his lips just lightly chapped, and Toff has missed this. He’s missed this, doesn’t honestly know how he let himself live without it.

“Fuck you, assholes, “ Pears says, covering his eyes. “Can you bring me back something, at least?” He’s actually pouting, which is hilarious. “I want a low-caf mocha/vanilla swirl with the green gummy tape, not the blue kind, okay? You guys always mess that up.”

Toff nods once Martin finally pulls away, tapping his temple like he’s making a mental note. It would help more if he could get his brain to focus, but Pears has no way of knowing that. Martin will remember, probably. Martin remembers everything.

“We got it, Pears,” Martin says. “Green not blue. See? Why don’t you also text it, so we can have all our bases covered?”

His face is so sincere. If Toff didn’t know him so well, he’d have no idea Martin was even bullshitting. It’s an amazing thing to see.

“That’s a great idea!” Pears says, instead of catching on. He turns back to the cereal box, like maybe he’ll find his phone in there. “What are you guys still doing here? I want my froyo.”

In the car, Martin can’t stop laughing. Toff laughs too, because it’s infectious, but mostly, he can’t stop staring. They’re in the truck, and Martin’s driving, because he prefers it. They’re stuck in traffic, because they’re almost always in traffic, and the sun is glinting off Martin’s hair, like he’s a painting and not a person.

“What are you staring at, you dork?” Martin asks, but he’s still smiling when he turns his head.

“You,” Toff says, pinching his wrist again. If he’s somehow still sleeping, he hopes it’s a coma. This isn’t a dream he wants to wake up from.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” Martin says.

It’s not a terrible idea, even if any pictures he takes will probably disappear once he wakes up again. He digs through his pocket for his phone, dragging out a bunch of receipts with it when he finally manages to get it out.

“These shorts are stupid,” he whines, dumping the extraneous paper into the cupholder.

Martin ignores him. “Oh hey! Punch card, sweet. I’m always losing mine. Did you know you had a free yogurt at Froyo Life? We’re definitely not using this on Pears.”

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the talented and lovely Las, and titled by a line in Hypnotize by The Notorious B.I.G., because that song lives in permanent rotation in this house.


End file.
